The End of Our Story (Or Not)
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Two months ago, Molly had to make a difficult decision to protect those she loves. Now, Sherlock comes face to face with the truth. Angsty at first, but happy by the end. Post Series 4.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes sat in the black leather armchair in his flat at 221B Baker Street in London. He had not moved since he had arrived home two hours ago; he couldn't bring himself to. It was over. It was all over. He had nothing left. Sherlock had just spent the last two months working the most important case of his entire life, and now that it was over, he didn't know what to do.

Two months ago, serial killer Daniel Masters killed Bart's Hospital's own Doctor Molly Hooper. She had been beaten so severely that they'd had to call Sherlock in to identify the victim, since her purse, phone and all other identifying possessions had been taken. Sherlock remembered that night more vividly than he would ever wish to.

 _Sherlock climbed out of the cab, his friend and crime-solving partner Doctor John Watson right behind him. The two men marched up to the crime scene, where a few officers stood at the yellow tape, nodding as they spotted the consultants and holding the tape for them to pass under. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood between them and the body with his two colleagues Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and Doctor Phillip Anderson._

" _Standing around staring at the ground?" Sherlock said as he walked up to them. "No wonder crime doesn't get solved without me."_

" _Just wanted to warn you," Lestrade told him. "This one's a bit gruesome."_

 _Sherlock gave a single nod and moved around them to see the body._

 _John let out a gasp next to him. "Jesus…"_

 _The body belonged to a petite woman with brown hair, but beyond that, there was nothing recognizable about her at all. Her face was very nearly smashed to pieces, and from what they could see of her arms and lower legs, there was not an unbruised inch on her body. She had obviously been repeatedly beaten and maybe even stabbed, what with the amount of blood on her chest and abdomen._

" _Who would do this?" whispered John._

" _A monster," muttered Sherlock as he knelt next to the body, his eyes moving over it. "Woman in her mid-thirties, approximately five foot three…" He narrowed his eyes at her clothing. "Well-educated…" He cautiously picked her hand up to turn it over and look at it. "Medical profession…" He turned the hand over again. "Works around chemicals frequently, most likely—" He came to a stop as he stared at the woman's hand._

 _John looked at him as the detective looked at the body and back at the hand. "Sherlock? What is it?"_

" _Nothing," Sherlock brushed off, putting the hand back on the pavement. "Worked in a lab. Possibly a chemist or… pathologist." He reached into the pockets of the woman's torn coat that lay crumpled next to her. He pulled out a key card, his fingers beginning to shake. "An access card for Bart's Hospital." He hastily dropped the card and began digging in the other pockets._

 _John frowned at his friend's almost hysterical actions, very obviously distressed about something._

 _Sherlock pulled a set of keys out of the pocket, staring at them in horror. "Oh, please, no…"_

 _John stepped towards him, concerned. "Sherlock—"_

 _Sherlock dug into the pocket of his own coat, pulling out a set of keys. He flipped through each set before holding up a key from his set against a key from the woman's set. "Oh, God…"_

 _John knelt next to him. "Sherlock, what—"_

 _Sherlock snapped his head over to the doctor, brandishing the matching keys. "A key to 221B, John, a card for Bart's, a doctor…"_

 _John's eyes widened as he looked at the body. "Oh, my God…"_

 _Sherlock's anguished eyes moved back to the body. "Molly…"_

" _Are you sure?" John asked in a quiet voice._

 _Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Positive."_

 _Tears began to form in John's eyes as he placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."_

 _Sherlock stared at Molly's battered and broken body for a moment longer before he abruptly got to his feet and bolted to the corner of the alley, bracing himself against the wall and emptying his stomach._

 _Lestrade eyed Sherlock with concern as he stepped over to John, who stood. "What's wrong?"_

" _It's Molly," John told him quietly._

 _Lestrade's gaze moved to the body, his shoulder slumping. "God, no…"_

" _Yeah," muttered John._

Sherlock opened his eyes, coming back to the present. No matter how hard he tried, his mind just would not delete the image of Molly laying battered, broken and dead in that alley. And he knew why. It was the same reason why he had refused to listen to the multitude of clues telling him it was Molly until they couldn't be ignored: love. Mycroft had always told him sentiment was a weakness, and Sherlock had never truly believed him until now. Even after his sentiment towards a friend had gotten Victor Trevor killed, he had never really viewed it as a weakness. After all, his mind had found a way to deal with that trauma, hadn't it? Why couldn't his mind warp his memories like it did with Redbeard?

 _Because it's Molly._

His mind could never erase Molly, because his heart wouldn't let it. Molly was different, one of a kind. And he had never gotten to tell her.

Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out the gift he had never been able to give: a diamond engagement ring. After almost a year of dating, Sherlock had been planning to propose that Friday night. But late Wednesday night, he had gotten that life-altering text for help on a crime scene.

He had then spent over a month hunting Masters down. The last two weeks had been grueling, as Sherlock and others were called to testify in his trial. And, _finally_ , this afternoon, Masters had been found guilty on all charges and received two life terms in Pentonville Prison. And now, the one thing motivating Sherlock, the only thing keeping him going, was gone. It didn't matter that he had caught Molly's murderer and brought him to justice. Nothing would ever bring her back.

Sherlock flung himself out of his chair as he clenched his jaw, starting to pace between his chair and the coffee table.

What was the point, then? All these crimes he had solved over the years, all the murders, all the burglaries—all he had ever accomplished is solving the puzzle and catching the criminal. He had never thought about the fact that what's done is done; solving the murder never brought the victim back. So, what was it all for? His life's work, everything, was useless. He spent all his time solving murders when he should have been preventing them. He should have been saving them. He should have saved them. He should have protected them. He should have protected Molly—

Sherlock suddenly grabbed the music stand perched next to the table, pushing it to the floor in a rage. He snatched up the end table next to his chair, flinging it towards the sofa. He let out a yell as his hands latched onto the pile of condolence cards people had sent him sitting on the coffee table, sending them flying through the room. He grabbed the next object within reach and froze. He held in his hand a framed photograph: he and Molly at the London Science Museum, laughing as they mixed a concoction together at one of the chemistry activity tables.

Sherlock stared at the picture as his rage suddenly let go and the grief hit him. A howl of misery left him as he dropped to his knees, clutching the picture frame close. The tears fell as he let himself finally feel the pain he had held off for two months.

What seemed like years later, he finally looked back down at the picture. It had been taken just four months earlier. They had been so happy together, Sherlock having finally gotten his head out of his arse and confessed his feelings.

 _Why hadn't I done it sooner? All that wasted time because I was worried I would hurt her._

His eyes moved to a card lying on the floor next to his leg. He reached out and turned it over, recognizing it as the one Mike Stamford had sent. Every one of the cards people had sent after the funeral were full of empty assurances.

" _The moment you feel like giving up, remember all the reasons you held on for so long."_

" _The ones that love us never really leave us."_

" _Hope is the little voice you hear whisper 'Maybe' when it seems the entire world is shouting 'No!'"_

" _It takes a minute to find a special person, an hour to appreciate them, and a day to love them, but it takes an entire lifetime to forget them."_

" _It's the possibility that keeps you going, not the guarantee."_

" _When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure."_

" _Whatever you do, hold onto hope! The tiniest thread will twist into an unbreakable cord. Let hope anchor you in the possibility that this is not the end of your story, that change will bring you to peaceful shores."_

No matter how well they meant, no amount of words would fix anything. She would always be gone.

He looked down at one card, which was a blank one, and inside was written:

" _The strongest people are not those who show strength in front of us but those who win battles we know nothing about."_

That one didn't even make any sense. Where did people find these quotes?

Dropping the card to the floor, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled towards the table, pausing when he spotted the case file lying open on it.

 **Name: Molly Anne Hooper**

 **Died: April 3, 2017**

 **Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma**

Sherlock placed the frame onto the table and picked up the file, holding it gingerly in his hands. A photo of the crime scene was paperclipped to the top, displaying that horrific event for all eternity. Closing his eyes, he folded the file closed and slowly dropped it onto the table. He raised his hand and wiped at the drying tears on his face.

 _I must pull myself together,_ he told himself. _Molly wouldn't have wanted me to fall apart. I must keep living my life. For her._

Running his hands through his hair, he took a deep breath and let it out again as his eyes feel on the picture frame. He reached down and placed it upright up on the tabletop, a reminder to him of happier days, a reason to keep going. His fingers lingered along the top of the frame before tracing over Molly's smiling face. He would not forget her; he would live in honor of her.

Sherlock's hand fell to his side as he slowly turned away to head into the kitchen. As he turned around and his gaze moved to the flat's doorway, his steps froze halfway across the room. His jaw dropped as his eyes widened, the shock hitting him full-on.

Standing in the flat's doorway, with a dark traveling cloak fastened about her and tears in her wide, anxious eyes, was Molly Hooper.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sherlock was frozen in place, unable to believe his eyes. Molly was dead. She was _dead_! He had identified her body, for God's sake! Masters had been found guilty of her murder! How could she be there? Was he missing Molly so much that his mind had conjured her? It wouldn't be the first time that had happened.

Some of his inner turmoil must have shown on his face, because Molly suddenly spoke.

"You're not hallucinating."

Sherlock's lungs released, and he let out the breath he had apparently been holding. He had not heard her voice in so long…

"I really am here," said Molly softly as she took a step into the flat. "I faked the whole thing."

Sherlock stared at her, still unable to find his voice. She was alive?

 _No!_ he told himself. _Don't let yourself cling to hope! Your mind has played this trick before!_

Then again, her face had been so beaten that she'd had to be identified through dental records, which could easily be fixed. All the things found on her body could have been planted. Masters had never _actually_ confessed to the crime. All the evidence had been circumstantial.

Or could his mind be grasping at straws?

A phone began ringing somewhere, but Sherlock found that he couldn't move.

Molly glanced at something behind him and then looked back at him. "You'll probably want to get that."

Sherlock stared at her another moment before slowly turning his head to look at the table, where his phone was ringing. He slowly reached out and picked the phone up, reading the Caller ID: "The Queen." He stared at it for what felt like an eternity before answering it. "Mycroft…"

"She's alive, Sherlock," his brother Mycroft told him. "We did fake her death. She's real."

Sherlock stared across the room absently. "Thank you…" He lowered the phone, not bothering to disconnect the call. He slowly turned back to Molly.

Molly was staring at him in an anguished sort of way. "Masters had threatened me. He came to the morgue one day. He tried to kill me because you wouldn't drop the case. If I hadn't had my autopsy tools nearby, I wouldn't have made it. It ran from the hospital, and Mycroft was pulling up in one of his cars, telling me to get in." She took a calming breath, obviously distraught by the memory. "We came up with a plan: to fake my death in order to protect me from Masters. Mycroft then increased security on everyone else in case he came after them. We also decided it would be best to fake my death instead of placing me in a safe house. We knew that you would catch Masters in the end, but if you believed me to be dead—if it became personal—you would not rest until he was caught. You would get him in half the time and would save who knows how many lives. So, just like with you, we found a body double and faked the whole thing."

Sherlock watched her as he took in the explanation. It made sense. The pieces all fit together, and it wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Hadn't all of London believed **him** to be dead once? And it was definitely something Molly would be able to put together, along with Mycroft, in order to fool him.

Then again, was it? Or was his mind combining his own faked suicide with his desire to have Molly back? Mycroft had told him this was real, but his mind could have thought up that whole conversation. Hadn't John hallucinated Mary for weeks after her death? And John's brain wasn't nearly as powerful as his.

What was he supposed to believe?

What was he supposed to _allow_ himself to believe?

A touch to his hand broke him from his thoughts. He looked down to see that Molly had gently grasped his hand, bringing it up in between them and placing her other hand around it as well. Her touch…it felt so real, so solid, unlike any figment his mind palace had ever dreamed up. Even a hallucination brought on by his mind palace was unable to fool him. It was the reason he had never suspected that his sister masquerading as Faith Smith in his flat of being anything other than real. He could _feel_ the difference. And this…this was reality.

Sherlock's eyes moved up to hers as she stared back at him, tears filling her eyes.

"I'm here," Molly told him, her voice breaking as her tears began to fall. "I'm really here."

"Molly…" Sherlock whispered before pulling her into his arms, holding her close and firm as he buried his face in her hair.

Molly's arms came around him as he grasped onto her, not ready to let her go for a while. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

One of Sherlock's hands moved to the back of her head, clinging to her for dear life. "Oh, God…"

"Shh," Molly whispered, tightening her hold around him. "Everything's all right now."

Sherlock suddenly realized he was trembling. With as much willpower as he could manage, he pulled away from her, framing her face between his hands. He smiled, laughing almost deliriously. "You're here. You're really here."

"I am," said Molly as she reached up and swiped her thumb across his cheek, and Sherlock realized he had been crying.

He pulled her towards him, planting a passionate kiss on her lips. The kisses might have gone on for days—he couldn't be sure—before he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. "I missed you so much. I didn't know how I was going to move on. I didn't want to believe you were dead. I—"

Molly placed her fingers over his mouth. "It's over. It's all over. I'm back."

Overcome with emotion yet again, Sherlock pulled her back into his arms. "I love you. I never said it enough before, but I vow to tell you every day from now on how much you mean to me." He pulled away again, reaching into his pocket. "Starting with this." He removed the ring box from his pocket and opened it, holding it up in front of her.

Molly gasped as she stared at the diamond ring.

"You are the most amazing, beautiful, intelligent and fearless woman I have ever known," Sherlock told her. "And the thought that I would never get to see you or talk to you again nearly killed me. I don't ever want to feel that again."

Tears fell out of Molly's eyes as she stared at him in surprise.

"I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to comfort you when you're sick. I want to surprise you with breakfast in bed on your birthdays. I want to argue with you over which schools to send our children to. I want to postpone cases when our anniversaries come around. I want to grow old with you. I want—"

Molly inhaled shakily as she pulled him down into a kiss. "Yes." She kissed him again. "Yes, yes, I'll marry you!"

Sherlock smiled as he kissed her. He removed the ring from the box and placed it on her finger. He pulled her into his arms again; he couldn't remember when he had ever been this happy. Locking his arms around her waist, he lifted her off of her feet and spun a couple of times, reveling in the adorable laugh he thought he would never hear again. He placed her back on her feet, adjusting his hold to make room for the slightly bulging belly pressing into his abdomen.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he pulled away and looked down at her stomach. Sure enough, it was pressing out against her traveling cloak, barely noticeable under the layers but still there.

Sherlock looked up into her eyes, his won wide and shocked. "You're…"

Molly nodded, biting her bottom lip. "I am."

Sherlock looked down at her stomach, speechless. Based on the size, she was about four months along. Four months. Which meant that in five short months, they would be parents. His jaw dropped a little. He was going to be a father…

"I didn't find out I was pregnant until after I had already left," Molly began explaining. "I'm one of those women who doesn't show very many symptoms, so I didn't find out until my stomach started growing around the third month. If I had known, I would have found another way. I know we didn't plan anything like this, and I don't blame you if you need some time to—"

She broke off and looked down at the hand resting tenderly on her stomach. She looked up, seeing Sherlock properly this time. He was staring at her stomach, his eyes lit up with something akin to wonder. They also looked suspiciously watery. A smile was also working its way onto his face. Molly smiled as she moved her hand to covers his.

Sherlock looked up at her, the hesitant smile breaking over his face. "Our baby…"

Molly's smile threatened to leap off of her face. "Our baby."

Sherlock's smile widened, if that was possible, and he leaned in, giving Molly a slow, tender kiss. Something thumped against his hand, and he jolted back, staring down at her stomach in amazement. "It kicked… I felt the baby kick!" He glanced up to see Molly staring at the floor with her jaw slack and eyes wide. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Molly looked up at him, her smile starting to return. "That's the first time it ever kicked."

"Really?" he asked as the baby kicked again.

The two of them reacted with gasps and laughs and kisses as Molly cradled her pregnant belly with her hands.

"She was just waiting for her daddy," Molly told him.

Sherlock froze. "She?"

Molly shrugged. "Well, he, she. I haven't found out yet. But we would be able to find out now if you wanted to come with me to an appointment—"

"Can we go first thing Monday?" asked Sherlock. "Mycroft can probably pull some strings to get us one last minute."

Molly laughed at his eagerness. "As long as we tell everyone about me before then. I don't want to run into anyone while we're out and give them a heart attack."

"Hmm," said Sherlock as he thought for a moment. "I could invite everyone here for dinner tomorrow night to celebrate closing the case. That will be believable."

Molly frowned. "Really? They won't think it out of character with how depressed you've been?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably. But we'll worry about that later. Right now, I'd much rather focus on you."

Molly squealed as Sherlock suddenly scooped her into his arms and carried her towards his bedroom, their laughter echoing through the flat.

* * *

 **One more chapter to go!**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 **Bit long, but last chapter!**

* * *

John headed through the door of 221B Baker Street, dreading whatever he was about to find upstairs. He had not seen or heard from Sherlock since Masters was sentenced in yesterday's trial, and he was starting to get worried. Sherlock had been a complete wreck these last two months as he worked nearly nonstop to avenge Molly's death, and the look on Sherlock's face after the trial was as close to depressed as John had ever seen. Not to mention, he wasn't responding to any of the texts John had sent. Yes, Sherlock did have a habit of not responding for even longer periods of time than this, but after last night…

John hurried up the stairs, images of the worst-case scenarios popping into his head: Sherlock out of his mind as he hallucinated Molly, Sherlock in a drug-induced stupor, Sherlock having shot himself in the head. John reached the top of the stairs and came to a sudden halt as he heard a woman laughing. John blinked a few times, confused.

"I love your laugh," came Sherlock's voice.

John frowned, his confusion growing. _Sherlock was with a woman?_

The woman laughed again, and the sound of kissing came through the door.

"And I love kissing you," said Sherlock. "I missed kissing you."

John's frown deepened as he stepped forward to look through the door that led straight into the kitchen. He froze at the sight in front of him. A woman—wearing nothing but one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, it looked like—was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, her back to the doorway. Sherlock was standing in front of her in another dressing gown, and he was engaged in a passionate lip-lock with the mystery woman. And from their mussed-up hair and the fact that the woman's legs had wrapped themselves around Sherlock's waist, it was obvious that the two of them had had quite a fun night.

"Really?" said John.

Sherlock wrenched himself from the woman's lips and looked up at him with wide eyes. "John."

"A day?" said John, his voice rising. "One bloody day since Molly's case is closed, and you've already moved on?"

Sherlock looked down at the woman, giving her a nervous look, as she unwrapped her legs from him but kept her head from turning towards John.

"Did she really mean that little to you?" asked John as he gestured heatedly.

Sherlock moved around the table towards him. "John, I can explain—"

"Explain what?" asked John, getting into his face. "That you've completely forgotten the woman you supposedly loved? I thought you treated Molly horrible before, but this?"

"John," said the woman as she stepped up next to John.

John glanced at her for a second as he went on. "How could you insult her memory like…" He stopped and looked back at the woman.

Molly smiled at him shyly. "Hi."

John stared at her as his mouth fell open.

"I'm sorry you found out this way," Molly told him. "We were going to invite all of you to dinner tonight and break it to all of you easily."

"You're alive?" asked John in a breathless voice.

Molly nodded. "I am. Masters threatened me, so we faked my death."

"Really?" said John, his voice hardening as he looked at Sherlock. "Another faked death."

"Not me and Sherlock," Molly told him. "Me and Mycroft. Sherlock didn't know. He thought I was dead, just like all of you."

John's gaze softened a little. "Oh. Well, then, I'm, er…I'm glad you're back. It's… Wow, I almost can't believe it."

"Neither can I," said Sherlock as he wrapped his arm around Molly and placed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Sorry I flew off the rails at first," John told them. "I thought…"

Molly smiled at him. "It's nice to know that you would defend me like that. You're a good friend."

"The best," agreed Sherlock. "Speaking of, I would very much like for you to be my best man, John."

John's brows shot up. "Best man? You mean, you two are…"

Molly nodded as she held her left hand out to show him the ring. "Last night."

John smiled widely at that. "Well, congratulations! I would be honored to be your best man."

"Excellent," said Sherlock.

"Oh, damn," said Molly suddenly. "Need to pee again." She immediately turned and headed down the hall towards the bathroom, shutting the door.

John watched her go before looking back at Sherlock, a little surprised at Molly's blunt remark. She was usually much more reserved than that.

Sherlock waved it off. "She's had a stressful two months. So, dinner tonight at six? Here?"

John nodded. "Sounds good. Want me to take care of inviting everyone?"

Sherlock's eyes brightened. "Excellent! We were wondering how I would invite people for a dinner celebration over the fact that the case is done while I'm supposed to be depressed about Molly. This way, you can invite them on the pretense of taking my mind off of it."

John nodded. "Sounds good. So, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Anyone else?"

"Stamford," Sherlock replied. "He is Molly's boss, after all. Oh, and, um, that friend she always talks about, the one with the same name as in that vampire book."

"Meena," Molly told him as she rejoined them. "And it's not the same. Bram Stoker spelled it with an 'i,' not two 'e's."

"Won't it be strange to invite Meena?" asked John. "No one knows you'll be there, and she doesn't know any of us, right?"

"She's met Sherlock a few times," Molly explained. "She's actually one of my few friends that can actually stand him."

John nodded. "Okay. Text me her number, and I'll take care of everything."

"Thank you, John," Molly told him.

"You're welcome," said John. "I'll see you two tonight." He turned and began heading down the stairs, speeding up when he heard a suspiciously breathy giggle coupled with a muffled thump.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea, John?" Greg asked as they stepped into 221 Baker Street. "I mean, a celebratory dinner? I don't think Sherlock's in the mood to celebrate."

"Which is exactly why this is a good idea," John told him as he led his friend towards the stairs. "I don't think he should be alone too much right now. I'm surprised he made it through the night. Molly's death hit him hard."

"You think it's a danger night?" asked Greg as they made their way up the stairs.

"Night?" said John, lowering his voice as they neared the first floor. "More like a danger week. Oh, what am I saying? It's Sherlock. It'll be a danger _month_."

John reached the landing and strode through the door into 221B's sitting room, finding Sherlock sitting in his chair as Mrs. Hudson bustled about the kitchen, finishing dinner. Sherlock was putting on an air of grief and indifference, and if it weren't for the light John recognized in his friend's eyes underneath the mask, he would have said Sherlock was the most depressed man he'd ever seen.

"Hey, Sherlock," said Greg's quiet voice behind John, who stepped aside so he could enter the room. "Are you doing all right?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his stare at John's empty armchair. "Don't ask stupid questions, Lestrade."

"Right…" muttered Greg, glancing at John and then turning and stepping into the kitchen.

John stepped over to his chair and sat down, waiting until he heard Greg's voice before he looked at Sherlock. He lowered his voice to the lowest whisper he could manage. "Where's Molly?"

Sherlock's eyes lifted from John's chest to his face, his voice a whisper as well. "Bedroom. Waiting for everyone to get here first."

John nodded surreptitiously. "Good." He turned his head slightly to make sure Greg was still talking to Mrs. Hudson and then looked back at Sherlock. "You going to just announce it, or is she going to walk out in the middle of dinner?"

"Haven't decided yet," Sherlock muttered and then immediately dropped his gaze to the floor, looking lost.

"John, Sherlock," came a voice form the door.

John turned to see Dr. Mike Stamford walking into the flat. He stood and moved over to him. "Mike. Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Mike told him. He glanced over at Sherlock and stepped towards him. "Listen, Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned his head and looked solemnly up at the doctor.

"Everyone at Bart's wanted me to say…" Mike began before he paused, giving the detective a grateful look, "congratulations on closing Dr. Hooper's case."

Sherlock stared at him a moment before nodding and going back to staring at the floor.

Greg walked into the sitting room. "Mrs. Hudson says dinner's almost done."

"Thanks, Greg," John told him.

Greg stepped forward and shook Mike's hand. "Dr. Stamford."

"Mike, please," the doctor responded.

"You, erm…still having trouble finding another specialist registrar?" Greg asked with a nervous glance at Sherlock.

"Well, I've interviewed a few pathologists, but for some reason, there's always something about them that doesn't seem to fit with the job," Mike replied.

John glanced over to see Sherlock suppressing a smirk. Mike's hiring troubles will—no doubt—have been Mycroft's doing; a precautionary measure to ensure Molly still has a job when she returns to the land of the living.

"Maybe you're just subconsciously wanting to find something wrong with them," Greg said.

"Maybe…" muttered Mike. "It will be hard to replace Molly."

Sherlock suddenly pushed himself to his feet and strode into the kitchen on his way to his bedroom.

Greg watched him go. "John, shouldn't we—"

John shook his head. "I already checked. There's no drugs in there."

They all watched as Sherlock entered his room and firmly closed the door.

"Let him be," John told them. "He'll be back out in a few."

Sherlock closed the door, smiling widely as Molly set her book down and stood up from the bed.

"Is it time?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but I want to do it before dinner. I don't think I can make it through without bursting."

Molly smiled as she kissed him. "Having trouble keeping your mouth shut?"

"Yes, it's torture!" Sherlock told her, wrapping his arms around her. "All I want is to tell them to stop. They're fretting over me, saying how much they miss you, talking about how hard it is to find a replacement pathologist." He sighed. "I hope your friend gets here before dinner, because I can't stand this much longer."

Molly laughed a little. "You better get back out there." She kissed him. "You'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say," Sherlock replied. "You have no idea how hard this is."

Molly rolled her eyes at his dramatics as he turned towards the door.

Sherlock grabbed the door handle and looked back at her, smiling. "I've never had this much trouble keeping a smile off of my face."

Molly smiled warmly, nearly melting at the sentiment in his eyes. _Damn hormones!_ She wiped at the tear forming in her eye.

The smile instantly dropped from Sherlock's face, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes became distant as he opened the door and stepped out.

Sherlock made his way through the kitchen, finding Molly's friend Meena Kolldan talking to John in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room.

 _Oh, thank God,_ Sherlock thought. _Everyone's here, and I don't have to wait._

Meena spotted Sherlock and moved towards him, and Sherlock was stunned when she wrapped her arms around him.

"Thank you for catching him," Meena told him.

Sherlock awkwardly patted her back, trying to remain in character. _You're supposed to be grieving, remember!_

Meena let go as Mrs. Hudson set another dish on the table.

"Dinner's ready," the landlady told them.

Greg, Mike, John, Meena and Mrs. Hudson began gathering around the table, which was already set.

"Actually, do we have room for one more place setting?" Sherlock asked.

John glanced up at him and smirked, turning his head to hide it.

Mrs. Hudson glanced at the table for a moment. "I think so. Why?"

"Oh, I took the liberty of inviting someone of my own to this little intervention," Sherlock answered as he slowly began dropping the act.

"An intervention?" said Greg with a nervous chuckle. "We're celebrating—"

"All of my friends gathered together to remind me that life is still worth living," Sherlock rattled off. "It's an intervention."

"You invited someone?" asked Mike.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock replied. "Someone who has a proven track record of keeping me 'off the sweeties.'"

"Uh…" stuttered Greg, glancing at John—who nodded—before turning back to the detective, "that's great, then. Who—"

Sherlock gave a smile and then turned and strode towards his bedroom.

Greg looked at John, confused by Sherlock's sudden levity. "What's wrong with him?"

Before John could evade the question, they heard a knock on a door.

"Dinner's ready, love," came Sherlock's voice.

Needless to say, everyone at the table was now looking between each other, confused beyond hope. Someone was in Sherlock's bedroom? Sherlock called this person "love"? Sherlock moved on from Molly? After another moment, Sherlock reappeared in the kitchen, holding someone's hand. As the woman stepped into view, the kitchen fell deathly silent as they all stared at her.

Molly smiled sheepishly as they all stared at her, nearly every single one of them with mouths open. "So…"

Sherlock glanced down at her.

"What's for dinner?" Molly asked in a nervously cheerful tone.

Sherlock stifled a laugh as he looked back at the room. "Everyone, I'd like you to meet my fiancé, Molly Hooper."

"But…but…" stuttered Greg, "she's dead…"

"Hmm." Sherlock looked at Molly. "With observational skills like that, it's no wonder the Yard can't survive without me."

"You faked it?" asked Mike. "This whole time, you were…"

Molly nodded. "I had to. Masters threatened me."

Greg narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "It was an act?"

"Only tonight," John told them. "He had no idea she was alive until last night."

Greg and Mike turned towards him with frowns.

"Wait, _you_ knew?" asked Greg.

"Only since this morning," John replied. "Mycroft's the one that helped Molly. In fact, he's the one that's been sabotaging your employee search efforts, Mike."

Mike nodded as he turned back to Molly, grinning as he walked over to her. "Well, welcome back, Molly! Oh, my God! No one's gonna believe this!"

Greg suddenly turned back to Sherlock. "Wait, did you say fiancé?"

Everyone in the room froze at the statement.

Sherlock nodded. "Finally noticed that, did you?"

"Oh, my God!" Meena finally spoke up, apparently broken out of her frozen shock. "Congratulations!" She rushed over to Molly, wrapped her in her arms and hugged her tight. "Alive _and_ engaged! Ha-ha!"

Meena came to a stop as Molly's face scrunched up a bit and she moved her hand to her stomach. Sherlock turned towards her in concern as Meena slowly eased away from her.

"What is it?" Meena asked her as Molly brought her other hand to her stomach.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Molly gave a little groan as she rubbed at her lower abdomen. "It's nothing."

"No, it's not," Sherlock told her. "You're in pain. Is something wrong?"

"No, Sherlock, it really is nothing," Molly told him. "It's just a little round ligament pain."

There were intakes of breath as Mike and John recognized the medical terminology.

"Are you really?" asked John, his brows raised.

Molly's smile threatened to jump off of her face. "I am."

"What's round ligament pain?" asked Meena.

"It's basically just an ache the ligaments that support the belly give off as they prepare for an increase in size," John explained. "In order words, just normal pregnancy aches and pains."

Meena's smile erupted back onto her face. "You're pregnant?"

Molly nodded, and Meena grabbed her back into a hug. "Easy, Meena. Still a little tender here." She laughed as Meena immediately released her.

"So, this means you're in your second trimester?" asked Mike.

Molly nodded again. "Seventeen weeks."

"Oh, God, there's gonna be two of them," muttered Greg with a teasing smile at Sherlock.

"Congratulations!" said Meena as Greg, John and Mike all stepped forward to hug them and shake their hands.

"Why didn't you tell me this morning?" asked John, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't come up." He looked up to see Mrs. Hudson still standing at her place beside the table, her hand at her mouth. "Mrs. Hudson, you've been awfully quiet."

Mrs. Hudson started to remove her hand before putting it back. After another moment, she brought her hand to her chest, tears in her eyes. "I'm just…so happy we're all here…"

Molly smiled and stepped forward, giving Mrs. Hudson a hug. "Me, too."

Mrs. Hudson pulled back, her own lighting up her face. "Oh, a baby! It's so exciting!" She laughed as she pulled Molly into a hug again.

"Yes, it is," said Sherlock, smiling at Molly. "But if you would please release my fiancé, Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure she's starving."

"Oh, yes, food!" exclaimed Molly, pulling back and sitting at the table. "I haven't eaten since three."

John chuckled as they all sat down, Greg pulling out another set of plate and silverware.

"I can't thank you all enough," Molly told them. "You were there to keep Sherlock sane. I don't know what I would have done if…"

Sherlock reached over and took hold of her hand. "I knew you would kill me if I let myself go."

Molly smiled as Sherlock leaned forward and gave her a kiss.

"You should have seen him, Molly," John told her. "I fully expected him to turn back to drugs, but…he wouldn't let himself drop the case."

"Yeah, he was strong," Greg contributed.

"Not as strong as I should have been," said Sherlock. "Then again, the strongest people are not those who show strength in front of us—"

"—but those who win battles we know nothing about," finished Molly.

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to stare at Molly, who was smiling at him. He frowned at her as he came to the correct conclusion. "But that wasn't your handwriting…"

Molly nodded sheepishly. "I told the man at the post office that I couldn't read or write English. He wrote it." She gave a shrug. "I wanted to get a message to you somehow."

Sherlock smirked a little, amazed at his fiancé's cunning. "I should have known. It had your style all over it."

"I thought the magnifying glass on the back was a dead giveaway," Molly told him.

"The magnifying glass!" hissed Sherlock. "There's always something."

Molly laughed. "You didn't look into that clue?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought it was a logo. I wasn't exactly looking that close."

"You have any idea what they're talking about?" Greg muttered to John.

"None at all," John muttered right back.

Molly winced at Sherlock. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock told her, taking hold of her hand. "It all worked out."

"Yes," said Mike, raising his glass of wine. "Welcome back, Molly."

The others all raised their own glasses. "Welcome back."

Sherlock leaned over and gave her another kiss, and they all dug into the dinner. Sherlock was having a hard time keeping his eyes off of Molly, so grateful to have her back, and as Meena passed dessert around to everyone, Sherlock placed his hand on top of Molly's as it lay on her stomach. His thumb stroked over the engagement ring on her finger as his fingertips brushed her distended abdomen, smiling as the baby kicked against his touch. No matter the circumstances that had led to it, he wouldn't trade this life with Molly for anything.

* * *

 **THE END!**


End file.
